


Preparations

by Rubynye



Category: Lord of the Rings (2001 2002 2003)
Genre: Bondage, Food, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-13
Updated: 2010-01-13
Packaged: 2017-10-06 06:05:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/50478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rubynye/pseuds/Rubynye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam bakes Frodo's cake; Frodo giftwraps Sam's present.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Preparations

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally written for the [](http://community.livejournal.com/hobbit_smut/profile)[**hobbit_smut**](http://community.livejournal.com/hobbit_smut/) 'Birthday Candles are Hot' Challenge to celebrate the One Birthday, but it has been significantly edited from the version posted there.

Title: Preparations (was "Cake and Giftwrap")   
Challenge: Birthday Candles Are Hot Challenge   
Rating: R   
Pairing: Frodo/Sam  
Other Pairings: Sam/Rosie, Frodo/Merry and Merry/Pippin implied.  
Warning/s: slight bondage, a wild Baggins, authorial delirium

"A scrape of nutmeg, there, that's good...." Sam paused for a moment, closing his eyes and savoring the warm sweet scent. Along with the lemon and the honey, the nutmeg would give the finished cake a rich and unusual harmony of flavors that would hopefully delight the guests, as should be. Frodo's (and Bilbo's!) birthday dinner this year might be a smallish affair, just a half-dozen friends come to stay over, but Sam would see to it that it was every bit as deliciously memorable as any since Bilbo had gone away.

As Sam gently prodded the butter with a finger and judged it warm enough for creaming, he thought briefly of Bilbo, and hoped that his first master and old friend would judge that he cared well for Frodo. Sam certainly tried his best, with all his strength and all his heart. Cradling the large mixing bowl in the crook of his arm, he tipped in the butter, the shredded lemon-peel, the nutmeg, and a pinch of salt; as he beat the mixture with even strokes he gazed out of the kitchen window, at the glowing garden it was his pride to tend as his father had before him. The Gaffer had relinquished Bag End to Sam in stages, and it was only this past summer that he finally said aloud, "Well, lad, Bag End's your garden to work now, and mind you don't muck it up!" Sam had blushed as he nodded, because the twinkle in his Dad's eye granted acceptance, even permission, to tend rather more than just the hedges and roses.

Sam thought of roses, and thought of Rosie, and smiled. A pert and pretty lass, with all Bywater's eye on her, but she seemed to keep a special look for him, and he couldn't deny he liked it. Even so, his thought lighted on her dimples and curves only to slide away again. Rosie was a fine fair lass, and his friend with Tom and Jolly since they'd been faunts together, but Sam's mind that day turned to a different handsome face, slenderer hips, firm shoulders and commanding hands. Sam allowed himself one thought of Frodo, his friend and his master and his lover and half his world all rolled up in one. Then he checked the butter.

He'd beaten it to a finger from its life, as his Mam had used to say. Remembering her smiling face, thinking of the brown eyes he'd inherited from her, he poured in the sifted sugar, popped a lump from the sifter into his mouth, and kept beating. The sugar-lump, its core a hardened bit of treacle, left a sweet smoky tang on his tongue; the taste reminded Sam of Frodo's mouth, when Frodo would give the smallest smile and tilt his head just so and Sam could no more not kiss him than not breathe.

Sam wondered if Merry would agree that Frodo tasted so. The last time Sam had seen Frodo that day was when he'd given him a picnic basket packed to the brim with good things; Merry had grinned and squeezed Sam's arm before taking a blanket from him and following Frodo off down the back hill. Sam rather envied Merry, who was his master's equal, if Frodo had one, and who certainly had far more of a proper claim on him. Then again, Merry rather envied Sam, who saw Frodo day in and day out, who lived just down in the Row and these days more than half up at Bag End. They peaceably knew this about each other, and it made their friendship all the stronger. After all, they both loved Frodo, and what was a little envy to that?

Even so, Sam rather wished he were on that picnic. But then, instead he was here, entrusted with Frodo's birthday dinner; he had a lovely joint roasting, and the stove covered with pots full of good things to go with it, and the cake he was making would soon scent all the smial. Sam paused briefly, dropping the spoon into the bowl and flexing his wrist, as he smiled, thinking of his grand good fortune in his position at Bag End, in being able to do for Frodo in all the ways he could.

Sam turned to the basket of eggs and chose five of the largest. Setting his bowl aside, he pulled two smaller bowls down from the shelf and began cracking and separating the eggs. A memory came to him, of a Tookland dance and Frodo in an even wilder mood than usual, and the uses to which a slippery egg white might be put, and Sam grinned and ducked his head though there was no one nearby to see his blush. Frodo was wild, and beautiful, and sometimes almost fey, and Sam loved him so much his heart sometimes felt it would burst for the sweet ache of it.

Sometimes he felt his prick'd burst, too. Sometimes it almost seemed Frodo might float away, solid hobbit though he was, unless Sam pinned him down with his arms and body and kisses. Sam tipped the yolks into the larger bowl, stirring each in carefully before adding the next, and let himself drift into memories of those times, of Frodo writhing and moist-hot beneath him, firm muscle sleeked with only a thin layer of padding, curls dark and damp and soft on Sam's skin. Sometimes Frodo used a bit of that muscle and tipped them over, holding Sam beneath him more firmly with his eyes than even his hands, till Sam couldn't keep his own eyes open any longer against the overwhelming fire Frodo drove all through him.

For a week, since Merry and Freddy had arrived, Sam had slept every night in his narrow little bed at the back of Number Three. They knew, of course, and had both made a point of saying they better than didn't mind, but still there was knowing and _knowing_. On the last night before the guests were expected, Frodo's eyes had glittered with something that almost frightened Sam and utterly thrilled him; Frodo had bound Sam to his wide bed with a soft woven scarf much the same yellow as these eggs' yolks, and had tupped him till he thought he might be staggering the next day and it would be worth it ten times over if he were, and had teased him after in a voice gone hoarse with shouting and soft with midnight that one day Sam ought to be the one doing the tying. Sam had shaken his head with the last of his strength; it wasn't his place, and he knew it. He would follow Frodo anywhere, and that was where he belonged.

Even so, sometimes, in the depths of his heart, he wondered what it would be like...

Sam sifted a little sugar into the egg whites, and added a few drops of the lemon's juice; into the large bowl he poured the rest of the juice and a measure of honey. He licked a salt-sweet drip off his finger, and ran his tongue round the tip, feeling its roughness, remembering the softer texture and slight inky taste of Frodo's finger. He wondered what it would be like to be the one doing the tying, what it would be like to lean over Frodo and kiss him gently, stroking each wrist before gently wrapping it in cloth and binding it to the bedframe.

What would he use for bindings? The softest, brightest cloth he could find, to ward all harm from those cherished wrists, to set off the pale skin that lined them and ran up the inner sides of Frodo's arms. Sam would heighten that paleness further as he sucked just inside an elbow, tasting salt-smoke-skin sweetness, tasting the blood that quickened and rose to rush just beneath its surface, just beneath his tongue. Sam would lave and suck as Frodo quivered and writhed and gasped, would listen for the breathless slide into a moan that told him to let go, would then sit back on his heels and gaze at the beautiful purple-red oval framed in cream.

Sam realized what he was thinking, and flushed red as the glaze on the bowl he held. Marking Frodo was such a guilty pleasure; no matter how Frodo loved it, and told Sam so, Sam always felt he was laying ownership that rightly went the other way. He managed once to put that feeling to words, after a dinner's worth of Frodo's wheedling and three mugs of beer, and Frodo had laughed, and kissed him, and said, "But I am yours as well, Sam." Sam had blushed like his face was afire, and Frodo had laughed and kissed him again, and had caught him up with the look in those eyes and dragged him off to bed.

Those eyes. Sam thought of them, shining through all his life like twin pole-stars, from his first memory of meeting Frodo, from the first time Frodo had looked at him with startled desire, from days upon days and nights upon nights, from waking and dreams. Sam knew that he wasn't alone in the thrall of those eyes; there were times when with one glance Merry or Pippin would be shifted from laughing and loud to stunned, blinking stillness. At such times Sam would have to hide his smile in his sleeve or his mug, at least until he recalled how Frodo could command him utterly with those eyes, could pull him along as with hands, could strip him and rouse him and make him sob and peak.

Sam wondered what would happen if they were in bed and he _couldn't_ see those eyes. He imagined more soft stuff, bound gently round Frodo's face, beneath tousled curls and above the laughing mouth. Frodo calling out, "where are you?" and Sam smiling as he looked him up and down, from bound hands clenching and blooming like buds furling and unfurling, along sleek arms and the flat firm planes of a lad's breast, down narrow hips and flushed, hard prick, slender thighs and well-turned calves and dark-curled feet. Sam would stare, stroking Frodo with his gaze, filling his own eyes, as Frodo wondered where Sam had got to, where the first touch would land.

And then Sam would reach out a hand, and show him.

Sam blinked, and heated midnight faded into bright daylight before his eyes; he looked down, and heaved a sigh when he realized that he was just barely this side of overwhipping the whites. _Ninnyhammer_, he silently scolded himself, _if you want so badly to move your wrist so, you'd best get the cake in and take yourself off somewhere private._ That would have been just fine and dandy, to think so hard on what he'd like to do to Frodo that he ruined Frodo's birthday cake.

Still, the whites were fine, and the cake wasn't spoilt. Sam dumped the remaining sugar lumps out of the strainer and poured in the flour he'd measured earlier, sifting it onto a plate; using a wide flat spoon he sprinkled a scoop of sifted flour over the batter, then added a scoop of beaten whites and folded carefully. Try as he might to concentrate, his mind went back to cool moonlit dimness threaded with heat, to the image of Frodo arching and moaning beneath Sam's hands and mouth, to the phantom sounds of Frodo's voice begging and commanding and pleading, "now, Sam, now," and to the thought that Sam would know, because Frodo had taught him, that it could rise higher, be even better, and that he would not give in. Not yet.

Sam wondered if he could disobey Frodo's voice, if it were parted from its strongest allies, those eyes. Possibly, he'd have a bare chance. Perhaps.

The batter was mixed, tiny bubbles swelling in the surface. Sam pulled over the pan he'd prepared, buttered and floured and with scented geranium leaves prettily arranged over the bottom. He scraped the batter in and smoothed it, and carried it over to the far side of the oven, where it was a little warmer than where the roast gently cooked. He wondered if he should leave the bowl for Pippin and Folco and Freddy when they came in, and pictured Pippin laughing as Merry licked batter from his slender fingers. That warming thought led to the positively heating image of Frodo licking batter from Sam's fingers, which led to Sam not noticing that his thumb stuck out beyond the kitchen towel until he seared it on the oven door.

Ah, well. Sam shut the oven and sucked on the burn. The image had been worth it.

Sam cocked an ear, but outside he heard only low bees' buzzing, a chirping bird, a whispering breeze. The gentlehobbits must have gone away down to town. Sam set the bowls in the dishpan and washed the wooden spoons over them to fill them with water; leaving the bowls to soak and the spoons to dry, he took himself off to the back bedroom that was nominally his, though he rarely slept there. If anyone returned they'd only seek him there if they truly needed him, and at that moment he truly needed to be alone.

Sam undid his breeches with one hand as he latched the door with the other, threw himself full-length on the firm little mattress, and began stroking with a sigh. His burned thumb ached, and he sucked on it again, sinking back into his thoughts. Now, Sam's thumb was hardly half the size of what he wished to be sucking, and it was rough-skinned, not impossible velvet over firm fullness. Even so, Sam had a head full of fancies, and he could imagine well enough: he could picture himself kneeling on the bed rather than lying, Frodo's heels drumming on his back, his ears ringing with Frodo's moans, his body trembling with the quivers looping through them both. Sam licked his own sweaty upper lip, moving his mouth in time with his hand, and thought of Frodo writhing in their shared rhythm, crying out Sam's name till the walls echoed, thought of his wide-eyed little winces of pleasure in time with Sam's thrusts, thought of the pulse beating in his throat against Sam's lips as Frodo arched against him and spilled wet fire between their bodies, and of his gasped, "now, Sam, _now_.' Sam would obey, he always obeyed Frodo, and he would press his face to the crook of Frodo's shoulder, muffling his own groan as he shuddered apart into a thousand glowing bits.

That thought flashed white as moonlight and hot as flame behind Sam's crimped eyelids, and he pulsed within the curl of his fist and muffled his moan with his hand, feeling the pleasure crest and sweep through him and wash him back up on the narrow little bed.

Sam let himself lie for a few moments, feeling his body thrum, feeling the fire-tide sink away to restfulness. Then he sat up, and scrubbed off his hand with a handkerchief, and took a deep breath and buttoned himself back up. There was still much to be done before dinnertime; Mari and Daisy should have been up by now to help, though Sam didn't really mind their tardiness. Shaking his head a little at himself, Sam got to his feet, took a deep breath of the nutmeg-lemon sweetness in the air, and smiled.

*

Early the next morning, when the sky was grey warming with pink, Sam softly hummed to himself as he climbed up to the round green door of Bag End. Ordinarily, he would have let himself in by the mudroom door, but after last night's dinner he expected that no one would be awake, and this way he could start his second look over the smial at the front entrance.

All seemed to be in order; perhaps Sam really _had_ managed to clear it all up the night before, from the brandy-glasses and ash-saucer in the small parlor to the mound of dishes he'd collected after dessert, amidst hearty compliments on the cake and the entire dinner. Sam had blushed and glowed from the praise, and even more so beneath Frodo's quiet, proud, heavy-lidded look, and the memory made him grin bashfully even now as he put away dry dishes as quietly as he could.

Wedged into the topmost rack of dishes was a small note; Sam picked it up and read, _Sam, would you be so good as to wake me when you arrive? I'd like to start on the next year of my life as soon as I may. Thank you, Frodo._

Well, then. Sam let the dishes be and set off down the hall, listening with a smile to the snores reverberating between the guest-rooms. When he stopped outside Frodo's room, Sam heard Merry sleepily murmur, "Shove over, you;" his smile turned just a touch rueful, and his heart only hurt a little. It _was_ Frodo's birthday, after all, and when Sam had bidden Frodo good night he'd had Merry on one side and Pippin on the other and a smile on his face brighter than the Moon outside.

However, a soft snort and muffled noise ended made Sam pause. He tilted his head as snoring resumed, catching a whistling note to it; hadn't Pippin been developing a touch of a cold? And Sam didn't _think_ Frodo had drunk enough to snore...

After a brief but sharp debate with himself, Sam pushed gently at the door, and it swung open, just a little. Mouth going dry and his conscience screaming at him for his cheek, he peeked in with one eye. The room was dim, the curtains drawn, but there was enough light to show that neither of the mops of curls on the pillow were sable-dark.

Sam's heart gave a wonderful little flip, even as he shook his head, trying to clear the confusion. If Frodo weren't in his own bed, where was he? Sam had seen the other guests to their rooms, so that only left Sam's little room in the back.

_He ain't there, he can't be,_ Sam said to himself, even as he went further down the hallway, past some storage rooms and large closets. The snores of the dinner-guests faded, and birdsong came faint but clear through the window at the far end. Beside that window was the door to Sam's room.

Sam set his ear to the door, and heard not snoring, but breathing. His own blood pounding near to deafening him, Sam pushed the door open---

\---and found Frodo sitting up against the wall, smiling serenely, his wrists wound with a soft white handkerchief and a length of rope draped between his hands.

Sam gaped, and Frodo tilted his head and gave that little smile, before it blossomed into a grin. "Good morning, Sam. Shut the door?"

Sam shut the door, and wobbled forwards on shaking legs. Besides the handkerchief, and the sheet, and the smile, Frodo was quite nude. He shifted, cheeks going a little pink, but his head stayed up and his eyes held Sam's as he said, "I know it's not my birthday any longer, but I do hope you like your present."

Sam nodded, tongue stuck to the roof of a cotton-dry mouth. No matter how many times he saw Frodo out of his clothes, he'd never be used to the sight, and oh how Frodo looked now, the light dappled pink and gold over him, the warm pale color of his skin set off by the plain handkerchief. Sam sat on the side of the bed, blinking and staring till Frodo actually turned a colour something like red. "Sam," he said, voice lowering, "aren't you going to unwrap your gift? Or would you prefer me wrapped?"

_But what of the guests_ and _And I thought the_ book_ was fine_ and _I've burst my breeches-buttons, I must've_ all tangled together in Sam's mind. "Buh," was all that emerged from his mouth, before Frodo, laughing and impatient, leaned forward to drape his bound hands behind Sam's neck and kiss him. Sam felt Frodo's mouth soft and moving against his, and Frodo's cloth-wound wrists behind his head, and the tender skin of Frodo's inner arm along his cheek; his hands came up to press into Frodo's back and pull him closer, feeling the muscles shift and play beneath the skin as Frodo squirmed and wriggled himself into Sam's lap, holding the kiss all the while.

"Mmm. Sam. I've missed you," Frodo murmured over Sam's mouth, pushing his hands together up into Sam's hair, his voice like warm honey. "They'll sleep for hours more. Come take your present." Frodo pulled his hands up again, and Sam found the bit of rope lying across his arms; reluctantly, he detached a hand from Frodo's skin to pick it up and found it soft and sturdy both, made of cotton. Sam looked up from the rope to Frodo, into those bright eyes, and whirling thoughts of _but it ain't proper_ and _who bound you?_ and _Frodo, you wild thing!_ all melted away in the heat surging up his spine and down his limbs, flooding his mind and his prick and tingling all over him.

Sam watched Frodo watch him give in, and something in Frodo's triumphant grin made Sam growl, "I like the wrapping, sir," and pull him back in. Frodo's laugh escaped into the kiss, but it was breathless, already half a moan.


End file.
